


"Don't Think Of Me."

by Sparks_And_Ink



Series: Supernatural Stuff [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Dies, F/M, Fluff, Ghost Dean Winchester, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9669416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparks_And_Ink/pseuds/Sparks_And_Ink
Summary: Dean dies and the reader is left in a puddle of their own depression, though the oldest Winchester doesn't seem to have let go and moved on.





	

You know he's here.

Sometimes it's a feeling. Other times it's something moving at the corner of your eye. But he's here. He's here and he's watching. He's watching as you cry at night with your knees pulled up to your chest and your hands tangled in your hair. He's watching as you talk to Sammy like nothing happened and you both aren't hurt. He's watching as every Friday night you escape to the bar after telling Sammy you're going to see Charlie. 

He's there and you don't even care that he's standing there watching what he did to you. 

You sit on your bed silently, the bunker completely empty of any life except your own. You know you should be doing something. Finding a case, researching.. You shakes your head, standing up and pacing your room. Though it's really not your room, is it? It's his. It was, anyway. It was his room, but it seemed like yours. Your room is officially across the hall, but after crawling into bed periodically it seemed as if you shared the small space.  
You rake your fingers through your hair messily, your hair tangled and your mind jumbled. The action makes your eyes water and then it doesn't seem to stop. The tears fall from your eyes as you lower yourself to your knees. You feel your forehead press against the cool floor of the bedroom, and then you exhale unsteady. The tears slip over your cheekbones, and then down your jaw, dripping onto the floor. 

You can practically see him, teasing you from the driver's seat of the Impala as you fight for Guns 'N' Roses while he argues for Metallica. You can sense the smell of the worn leather of his jacket, the constant presence of whiskey on his lips, and the soft feel of his skin pressed against yours. You feel your knee pressed against his, his calloused hand running over your shoulder softly. You look up with teary eyes, expecting to see nothing, expecting to go to bed with a beer bottle and an empty bottle of sleep medication on your bedside able.

That's not what happens. You watch as he studies you with bright green eyes, his gaze holding immense guilt. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment. You know that he's here. He's here with you. You open your eyes again, his bright gaze continuing to stare you down. He seems to lunge forward, hugging you tightly. You gasp, his cold forehead against the crook of your neck. You hesitantly wrap your arms around him, not bothering to wonder what is keeping him here. The Impala is gone. His bones are burned. There's nothing.

You hug him tightly for as long as you can until he pries you away, his forehead pressed against yours. He opens his mouth to speak, his existence seeming to glitch as he loses energy. You press your finger to his lips, his skin barely yielding her finger. 

"Sometimes I think of you and wonder what I did wrong," you whisper and he shakes his head, cutting you off as you go to speak again. He disappears moments after, your breathing stuttered.

"Don't think of me."


End file.
